


The Strange Affair of the Unwanted Emeralds

by pocketbookangel



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover between Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey stories and Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>London, 1921 and London, 1899. It seems that Lord Peter's first case was one of Sherlock Holmes' last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strange Affair of the Unwanted Emeralds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inamac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/gifts).



> I was delighted to read inamac's prompt re: Peter Wimsey because Sherlock Holmes solving a case for Very Young Peter Wimsey was something I had seen in a Sayers collection and then never been able to find again. After I sent this fic in, I found it online, ['A Tribute to Sherlock Holmes on the Occasion of his 100th Birthday'](http://mayhap.livejournal.com/147571.html).
> 
> Marjorie Phelps is Lord Peter Wimsey’s artist friend from _The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club_ and _Strong Poison_. Bunny Manders is from E.W. Hornung’s Raffles stories, and there are a few fanciful references to H. Rider Haggard's Allan Quatermain and She.
> 
> (I haven't read any of the published fanfic, although I do plan to read _Thrones, Dominations_ one of these days.)

Perhaps his long association with Mr Sherlock Holmes gave my uncle a greater understanding of the Bohemian mind than my other relations because he never encouraged me to cheerful untruths by asking embarrassing questions about how the work was going or telling me what I should be making. I still shudder when I recall the Christmas dinner that began with my aunt asking “Daffodils, Marjorie. They have been immortalised in English Poetry, why not in English Art?” How does one answer a question like that? I uttered something innocuous about how it’s impossible for a sculptor to improve on the work of the Creator, and tried to change the subject by adding rude words to the crackers.

It was my uncle who first suggested that I help him sort through some of his unpublished papers. In the past, he’d always claimed that he’d already published the most remarkable and instructive ones, but I believed that with some effort, we’d be able to find gold amongst the dross, and in exchange for some editorial assistance, some of the gold would wend its way into my pocketbook. Uncle John smoked while I rifled through dusty boxes and deciphered faded handwriting.

“Here’s one about vampires—that looks rather good. Or this one: Case of the Crown Diamond.”

Uncle John took the notebook from my hands. “That did have some interesting features, but I wasn’t in it much.”

“I can write it up for you, if you’d like.” Even with the literary agent’s fee taken out, there’d still be enough left over for me to move to a new studio. I’d been sharing digs with a girl from Slade, but a few weeks ago she’d decided that representational art was meaningless after the War and embarked upon a self-study course in free dancing. It’s not that I disagree with her new approach to aesthetics, but it is impossible to do any kind of sculpture when surrounded by flowing scarves and kicking.

“More stolen jewels. What a lot of sparkle you Victorians paraded in. Nowadays, we prefer to keep things a bit simple and clean.”

“I suppose your generation prefers motorcars to diamonds,” he said. My uncle may look like the last Victorian, but he taught my aunt to drive, and didn’t seem to mind when she treated every trip to the country as if it were the Grand Prix.

“Wait—these are notes on the Attenbury Emeralds. They’ve been in all the papers, I didn’t know they’d been stolen before. A friend of mine is investigating the case, everyone says it’s some new Raffles, so he said that it takes a gentleman detective to catch a gentleman thief.”

“It’s not possible to be a gentleman and a thief,” my uncle said. “I wonder if Holmes is following the case. Only a fool would steal the Attenbury Emeralds.”

“Why?” I turned the pages of the diary. The writing was illegible, not my uncle’s neat hand, but the sketches were rather good. Crude, but with a kind of power.

“They’re cursed.”

The angle of his moustache told me that he wasn’t quite serious. Some unkind souls have implied that Mr Holmes befriended my uncle because his open and honest face is easy to read, but that’s not true. The only ones who know what his expressions mean are the people who love him.

 

\---

 

In those days, Sherlock Holmes was at the height of his popularity. Telegrams, letters, mysterious parcels, and confidential notes flooded his Baker Street rooms, so Mrs Hudson became very strict with visitors. No one allowed in without an appointment, and only the strangest of strange cases could make one. My uncle helped when he could, but in spite of their best efforts, a woman slipped past the guards and established an outpost in their sitting room. Something had to be done about her brother and Sherlock Holmes was the person to do it.

 

(“She was tall and graceful, with clear, green eyes and a crown of bright, golden curls that framed her delicate face. Sleepless nights had not left her unmarked, but her beauty shone through her troubled expression. Her figure might have been called classical, but you get the idea. My uncle had a lot to say on the subject.”

“A Burne-Jones maiden in a shirtwaist. Why did she want to see Sherlock Holmes?”)

 

The woman was clearly nervous, but refused to be intimidated by Mr Holmes’ indifferent manner. “My brother is about to ruin his life and nothing I can say will stop him,” she said.

“Perhaps some other friend might take an interest—”

“It’s awful. Ever since my brother was a child, he’s loved sensationalistic literature.” The girl paused to glare at my uncle. “He’s read every story Dr Watson has written, which is why I believe the only person he will listen to is the world’s greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes. My brother has decided to become a criminal!” She promptly burst into tears.

“Watson, give the woman your handkerchief or something.” Mr Holmes always claimed to be unmoved by womanly tears, but he did take their cases, even the dull ones.

“My brother doesn’t quite understand that books are different from real life. He’s been reading those Raffles stories and now he thinks that’s something he can do, play cricket all day and steal things at night. Oh, Mr Holmes, it’s so awful,” she sobbed.

“Does he play cricket?” my uncle asked.

She dried her eyes quickly. “He thinks no one would believe that another cricketer could turn cracksman. He’s a solid all-rounder, but when he’s out of his whites, he’s the biggest fool in London. Have you heard of the Attenbury emeralds? Stolen from the queen of the Amahagger people, Lord Attenbury keeps them in his house in Mayfair. In his house, not in a bank. My brother says that an infant could stumble in and carry them away.”

Mr Holmes leaned back and watched her with a languid air. “So you’re asking us to prevent a crime from being committed, rather than solving one that has occurred? It seems to me you could get any private detective, or indeed a nursemaid to serve your purpose.”

Her exquisite lips trembled. “I simply thought… it’s Dr Watson’s stories that first turned his head.”

“There is some distance from thought to deed. If your brother does turn criminal, I assure you that both the doctor and I will do our utmost to return him to the light, without involving the authorities. You have my word.”

After her step faded from our hearing, Mr Holmes permitted himself to show some amusement. “Certainly a determined young woman. It’s a pity her brother doesn’t possess half of her spirit.”

“If she believes that romanticising criminal behaviour is leading her brother astray, she should lodge a protest with Mr Manders and his publisher, not here. I don’t believe in making the criminal the hero.”

Mr Holmes picked up the card the young woman had left. “She may have considered it, but a respectable young woman like Miss Amelia Phelps could hardly call on a criminal in his lodgings, that is, if he could be found easily.”

 

(“Those Phelps women, with their Pre-Raphaelite curls—”

“Curly hair is the bane of our existence and once I’ve finished the story, I’ll tell you all about it.”)

 

Mr Holmes wouldn’t have given another thought to my aunt and her domestic troubles, but for a singular coincidence. A textile manufacturer, dissatisfied with the latest offerings from _The Strand_ , had got it into his head to start his own publication. He invited some writers whose works he enjoyed to a dinner party at his London house, promising a literary evening for men of the world. Along with the chroniclers of big game hunts and Amazonian tribes, he invited my uncle and he invited Harry Manders.

“I’m sure the biographer of the world’s greatest detective and the world’s greatest thief will have much to say to each other,” the textile magnate cheerfully shouted. In his long career, he’d overwhelmed his business rivals through volume rather than logic.

They didn’t. After a few preliminary comments about the weather, my uncle thought it was unusually hot for June and Mr Manders agreed, Uncle John decided to talk about the woman who’d visited Baker Street and how stories that glorified the criminal life would lead to a general decay in the moral fibre of the country.

Mr Manders bristled at the idea that his stories were inspired by his current poverty. “I started writing before they offered me any money, when I was in prison. Sometimes I hated him for drowning and leaving me to face justice alone, but when I was writing, the prison walls vanished and we were in his rooms in the Albany, and he was alive again.

My uncle didn’t finish his lecture on art and morality. He’d never talked about it, but the stories he wrote when he believed Mr Holmes was lost must have been motivated by similar feelings.

The literary evening for men of the world was not a success. The textile magnate had expected his guests to be more like Allan Quatermain and less like writers; instead of stories about lost cities in the jungle and man-eating tigers, they discussed sales figures and the possibilities for syndication in the American market.

A few days later, Mr Holmes surprised my uncle by asking if Miss Phelps knew when the aspiring criminal mastermind was going to make his attempt upon the emeralds. When my uncle said he didn’t, Mr Holmes suggested that he take her to lunch and find out.

 

(“He complained about Watson marrying again, but he was the one responsible, wasn’t he?”)

 

The not-so-daring robbery was scheduled to occur that very afternoon. Preparations were being made for a fancy-dress ball, and boxes full of supplies were coming in and out of the house all day. Disguised as florists, my uncle and Mr Holmes made their way to the study where the emeralds were kept.

(“Florists?”

“It’s a good disguise because if you hold a potted palm in front of you, like this, no one can get a good look at your face.”)

 

They found the safe open, and my Uncle George, also dressed as a florist, tied up under the desk. He’d scarcely had time to find the safe, when he’d been hit over the head by an unknown assailant. They took him back to Baker Street, where my uncle gave him a bandage for his head and Mr Holmes gave him a stern lecture.

“They must’ve noticed the emeralds are missing by now,” my uncle said.

“Yes, possibly. We shall have the police around here at any moment.”

At the word police, my Uncle George turned as pale as an athlete who spends all his time in the sun feasibly could.

“I have a prediction, Watson. Lord Attenbury will not report the theft to the police, and he will not thank me when I return the wandering gems to his care. The savage goddess whose brow they adorned cursed the man who stole the emeralds and any who would dare possess them.”

“I didn’t know they were cursed,” my Uncle George moaned.

“You don’t believe in curses, Holmes.”

“Nor does Lord Attenbury, but this theft will not be reported.”

Mr Holmes was right. The next day, my Uncle George trembled in the corner of the flat, while my Uncle John read the newspapers. Not a single word about the emeralds had made its way into print. Shortly after nightfall, Mr Holmes slipped away quietly and left my uncles to stay in and solve the puzzle of Mrs Hudson’s soup. He returned a few hours later, emeralds in hand.

“Despite the lateness of the hour, I’ve invited Lord Attenbury over to reclaim what was lost.” Mr Holmes gently unwrapped the necklace—the green stones glittered feverishly in the dim light. “My dear Watson, before telling a reformed jewel thief about a sure thing, consider whether or not he is truly reformed.”

My uncle turned red with embarrassment when he recalled exactly what he had told Mr Manders. Valuable emeralds guarded by security so relaxed a child could make away with it. “Mr Manders impressed me as being the type who is unlikely to work alone, and I do believe he truly regrets the loss of his friend.”

“Does he? Your view of the situation is correct as far as it goes. Ah, but our guest arrives. Good evening, Lord Attenbury. I see you have received my note.”

Lord Attenbury entered, his broad face bore few signs of his recent troubles, until he saw the emerald necklace in Mr Holmes’ hand.

“I say. Oh, I say.” His face crumpled and my uncle was afraid they were in for another bout of tears. “Where did you dig up those confounded things? My wife’s been begging me to make a report to the police, but I told her it was part of the curse and we were well out of it. Now what do I do?”

“They are yours to do with as you wish,” Mr Holmes said, serenely.

Lord Attenbury took the emeralds with all the enthusiasm of a gardener handling a dead snake. “You see, there’d been this bloody great row with the natives, and we found ourselves in this valley ruled by a queen. She was the most beautiful woman any of us had ever seen, and she wore these stones tangled in her majestic hair, like stars, with the emerald set in the middle as a mystical third eye.”

He paused and gazed directly at Mr Holmes. “ _You_ know that’s all rubbish, don’t you? What do I tell my wife? Women like it when they think they’ve married a hero.”

 

He’d never made it further than Durban. The days were hot and wet, he was moving and breathing underwater surrounded by strange faces, voices speaking in unfamiliar tongues, the too-bright sun reflecting off the white buildings, spiky rustling leaves, their whispers more sinister than the wholesome oaks and limes of his ancestral home--as his fever spiked, he climbed through a primeval forest, scaled ancient cliffs, until he crossed the boundary that divided the modern world from a hidden one ruled by unimaginable powers. The nurse’s uniform became celestial robes, the oil lamp flared out brilliantly into the flame at the heart of the universe.

He opened his eyes, but before his room could resume its ordinary shape, news of his cousin’s death arrived. He was now Lord Attenbury and must return to England at once. The scribblings he’d created whilst in the grip of fever were set aside and perhaps would never have been thought of again, but for the inquisitive nature of his wife. She, desiring to know all she could of her new husband, read through his notebooks and examined the sketches of the strange country he’d found in deepest Africa. She came to him with admiring looks and many questions.

Lord Attenbury looked into his wife’s shining eyes and couldn’t bear to tell her the truth.

“My boat overturned and we lost the maps and the photographs. All that remained is what you see before you, and this…” The emeralds, glass and pinchbeck won in a game of cards, were set before her.

 

\---

 

“So he never said anything to his wife, returned meekly with the necklace, and now I may be the unlucky soul who has to tell them the family heirlooms are made of glass,” Lord Peter said. “ _Elle valait au plus cinq cents francs_ and all that.”

I’d told Lord Peter that the emeralds he was trying to find had been stolen once before and that the detective who had worked on the case would be delighted to discuss it with him. I didn’t tell him who the detective was until we were on the train. I haven’t known him for very long, but I’ve noticed when he gets truly excited his endless stream of chatter turns into an odd kind of silence and that makes for awkward journeys.

“The Case of the Attenbury, no, The Amahagger Emeralds, needs that dash of adventure, that would’ve been a year after I met him.”

“You’ve already met Sherlock Holmes? You never said.”

“He was good enough to solve a small matter for me, a trifling affair. I doubt you’ll find any mention of it in your uncle’s notes.”

“You can’t have been more than eight at the time. What a naughty child you must have been.”

“I was completely angelic as child,” Lord Peter said, solemnly. “I do my best to make up for it in adulthood.”

My uncle met us at the station, and as we approached the cottage, Lord Peter did go all quiet and I thought I’d made a mistake. However, his good manners took over once we were finally in the presence of Mr Holmes; Lord Peter expressed a desire to see the beehives, and Mr Holmes kindly obliged.

After Mr Holmes had safely taken Lord Peter out of earshot, my uncle tried to discreetly inquire as to his intentions.

“He’s simply not the sort of person one could feel that way about,” I said.

“You didn’t bring him here only to talk about the emeralds, did you?”

“Lord Peter’s caught the detecting bug, but he’s afraid one can’t be a detective and a gentleman. It frightens him a little, _caring_ and knowing people’s secrets.”

“No, a detective can’t be a gentleman,” my uncle said, thoughtfully. “But I think a great detective can be.”

I hoped Lord Peter would believe him. Sherlock Holmes’ retirement had left the detecting field short of much needed decency and kindness.


End file.
